Explosive Encounters
by frozen-delight
Summary: A minor commotion in a launderette on Balcombe Street leads to a major alteration in John Watson's life. Sherlock/John developing relationship. A fluffy, relationshippy little casefic as a gift for jazzy fay at Holmestice's December Solistice 2013.


A gift fic for **jazzy_fay** at this Winter's Solstice at Holmestice on Livejournal.

Beta: Many, many thanks to my fantastic beta **dioscureantwins** for all her help, advice and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine of course. Extra thanks to the lovely **canonisrelative** and **stardust_made** for their sound advice and patient hand-holding.

Additional Notes: Incorporates elements of the film "My Beautiful Launderette". My apologies to Hanif Kureishi for making such irreverent use of his dazzlingly brilliant script.

Hope you all enjoy!

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**Explosive Encounters**

It's official – John's a prize idiot. How else is it to be explained that he's the one currently stuffing his and Sherlock's dirty laundry (okay, mostly his, since Sherlock's wardrobe apparently consists almost entirely of delicate materials that either need to be hand-washed or taken straight to the dry cleaner's) into one of the washing machines of a launderette on Balcombe Street – when it was _Sherlock_ who broke their washer at 221B with some strange and probably highly unhygienic experiment that John really doesn't want to know the details of?

Of course it never entered Sherlock's head that after apologising – which he still seems to consider as the height of flat-sharing consideration – the only decent thing would have been for _him_ to take the washing to the launderette. Curiously enough, it didn't occur to John, either. Sherlock looked rather adorable when he interrupted John's rant with a perfect little pout and the reminder that he _had_ already apologised – and before he knew it, John was already on his way to the launderette.

Shaking his head and cursing Sherlock's cute face, John continues to load the washing machine. This incident, he thinks, is the bizarre highlight of the thoroughly bizarre week that began last Saturday after a night out with Greg Lestrade.

Of course Lestrade himself is completely innocent of what ensued when he and John parted ways outside the pub. As always, their friendly get-together came down to a couple of drinks at their local, plus football and the usual half-humorous, half-stunned chit-chat about Sherlock's many – exasperating – quirks and talents. Vividly, John remembers the buoyant walk back to the flat. In even greater detail and colour, he can picture himself standing on the doorstep of 221B, where, for a moment, he's struggling to insert his key into the lock. Not long, mind you, he's not that drunk! It's only the briefest of moments. Then he's inside and slowly starts climbing the stairs, feeling just a tad tipsy and entirely in harmony with himself and the world.

Drinking always makes him a bit mawkish and prone to all kinds of unusual revelations. Such as how deeply rooted he is in this planet, how lucky to be alive in this time and age. That happened last autumn, when the smell of recent rain and the rustle of the leaves under his feet almost prompted him to throw himself to the ground in a vain attempt to hug the whole world. At least if Greg is to be believed. John's own recollections of the night are rather hazy.

This time, apart from feeling a bit tipsy and sentimental, he's still very much in his right mind and so it doesn't escape his notice when he climbs into his bed that it isn't quite as empty as it ought to be. Needless to say, Sherlock offers no apology for having spread himself out on John's bed. Instead, he instantly starts berating John for being back twenty minutes later than he'd estimated. John is not only feeling tipsy and sentimental, but also rather tired, so he tells Sherlock to go bother the skull and let him sleep in peace.

As it turns out, the skull is decidedly useless in this particular case, for Sherlock is in desperate need of advice. Right this instant. It can't possibly wait till morning. _It_ being the following catastrophe: Molly is very cross at him. Reluctantly, the detective admits that this might partly be his fault. All right, completely. So what is he to do about it?

John immediately understands the gravity of the situation and sniggers – their constant supply of body parts is seriously threatened. And because John is a good friend and completely mad, he finds himself agreeing that a fridge without a severed head or at least a couple of toes is really depressing. He sniggers even more at that. He must have drunk more than he thought.

In the half-darkness of the room he can make out the outlines of Sherlock's profile. Most prominently the drooping pout. After a while, he realises that there's an expectant kind of silence pervading the room – Sherlock must have asked him something while John's attention was fixed on his lips. He has no idea how long he's been staring. Fortunately, the alcohol, warming him merrily from the inside, prevents him from feeling self-conscious or uneasy about it. He erupts into another short series of giggles, because, really, the situation is just too absurd. Then, drawing on his own colourful history of – not always successful – endeavours to smooth the ruffled feathers of all the girls he'd managed to upset, both pre and post meeting Sherlock, John attempts to offer solid advice – apologise as sincerely as possible, bring along a present, chocolates maybe, invite her for a coffee.

Sherlock listens with the intense concentration that's usually reserved for particularly gruesome crime scenes and geeky pieces of information like the characteristics of 243 types of tobacco ash. Possibly, he's even storing John's advice away in the pompous depths of his mind palace for future reference. John rather hopes his words of common good sense won't end up straight next to the data on tobacco ash.

Once John has exhausted all his well-meant suggestions, the detective leverages himself up in a whirl of exuberant force that John rightfully feels should be forbidden after police curfew. As quickly as his fuzzy, fatigued mind allows him to, John extends a hand to his friend's shoulder to keep him from escaping. Yawning, he does his best to impress on his flatmate that Molly won't be likely to forgive him, despite all his spectacular efforts, if he now dashes off to wake her at this ungodly hour.

Grumbling about pointless sensibilities, Sherlock slumps back onto the bed with the awkward grace of a new-born foal, his head hitting John's shoulder and his elbow jabbing sharply into John's sensitive stomach. It's rather painful, since Sherlock's all angles and bones. But it's also curiously nice, because Sherlock is so warm and heavy, like a cup of soothing herbal tea that envelopes the body in a blissful state of sleepy relaxation.

Sighing contently, John burrows himself more deeply into his blankets. He's beginning to feel exceptionally comfortable. The whole situation no longer seems all that absurd. Once again, he finds himself glancing at Sherlock's mouth. Up this close, in the muzzy half-darkness, Sherlock looks even more like a twelve-year-old. Only his mouth, smooth, plush, relaxed, raises associations in John that are of a decidedly adult nature. Not for the first time, he wonders if Sherlock has ever been kissed. He'll have to ask him one day. One day soon.

John's eyes flutter shut, and before his sleep-addled brain registers it, he's turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Then, with another sigh, he buries his head deeper into his pillow. It all happens so very quickly that he hardly knows if it really happened or if he merely imagined it all, on the brink of a dream. Sherlock says nothing. Neither does John. And then he's already drifted off.

The next morning he wakes up alone, feeling well-rested but distinctly embarrassed. When he comes downstairs, he notes that Sherlock's coat isn't hanging on their rack. Right, so he's already out and about. John decides that they'll probably just ignore what happened. But then he notices that Sherlock has left him tea. It's gone cold and is therefore completely undrinkable, but a warmth spreads through John at the sight of it, all the same.

The week that follows has a decidedly surreal character. John feels as though he's walking down an infinitely long corridor, passing many doors on both sides, never knowing which to open, which to leave shut. And the ones he does open merely lead on to other mysterious corridors and twisted staircases he's not sure he wants to climb, not with Sherlock always turning up around odd corners. Mostly, John just tries to walk on with their life as normal, undistracted, undeterred. That proves difficult enough as it is. At one point John actually finds himself standing in their kitchen, smiling at the new bag of thumbs in the fridge – a clear indicator that Sherlock did indeed manage to reconcile with Molly.

Even though he's probably secured his 24/7 access to fresh body parts and the morgue for the rest of his life, Sherlock's behaviour continues to be slightly off, a fizzy amalgamation of shy smiles and crazy experiments that leaves John puzzled, dazzled and fond, incredibly fond. He rather suspects that in his own way, Sherlock feels just as out of his depth as John does. Maybe he's equally baffled by John's recent actions as John is by Sherlock's, who knows? Not that John thinks his behaviour could possibly compete with Sherlock's when it comes to the mad and bewildering. It's like Sherlock's following the dating tips in _My Weekly_ and giving them a highly individualised interpretation.

For instance: _Do something special._ Sherlock certainly does, just not for John. He conducts an experiment that he claims to have always wanted to do, completely body-part free, but leaving a disgusting smell in the flat nonetheless. And because he is in an exceptionally bright and patient mood, he explains it all to John in great detail. Knowing what it is that he's smelling only worsens John's nausea, though. A disheartened, slightly hurt expression appears upon Sherlock's face at John's lack of passionate interest in the subject, but it's soon chased away by a look of genuine puzzlement when John suggests that they go for a walk in the park.

The baffled stare doesn't vanish once they actually are at the park and Sherlock discovers that all John wants to do is walk about a bit and sit some time on one of the benches near the pond. Why one would bother to go to the park and stroll around without any concrete purpose seems utterly beyond the detective. Still, being the extraordinary personality that he is, he manages to be impatient and moody on top of mystified. Like a little child bored to tears in the back of the car on the family's annual holiday trip, driving the parents to distraction with his repeated questions of 'Are we there yet?', Sherlock asks every two minutes, 'Can we go now?'

Unfortunately, he's a lot more eloquent and scathing than the little boy in the back of the car could ever be. When John wants to feed the ducks in the pond with some old bread that he brought along, Sherlock showers him with a long and patronising lecture on why it's such a disaster to the ecosystem when the city population fattens pigeons or ducks with their leftovers. However, while he's busy ranting away, he does break the rock-hard bread into feedable little pieces and hands them to John, so John is disinclined to write off their outing as a complete failure.

This jumbled emulsion of emotions lingers in their interactions for the rest of the week, rather like the inexpungible, easily inflammable types of gas that Sherlock sometimes uses for his more destructive experiments. In a way, it's not dissimilar to the atmosphere of intense suspense that reigns in the flat when there's a case. Though, this time, there isn't one, as far as John can tell. There's just _them_.

Somehow, John spends more time in Sherlock's company than he normally would, not even retreating to his bedroom when his flatmate performs revolting experiments, and while he finds himself frustratingly tongue-tied and sheepish, he still manages to enjoy their quiet togetherness. In turn, Sherlock seems more aware of John's presence. Sometimes, he looks up from whatever it is he's doing and sends John an awkward smile. Or he spouts weird comments such as, 'Really, John, I can't believe you're still wearing that eye-sore of a jumper. The oatmeal colour makes your otherwise nice eyes appear appallingly puffy and vacant.'

John's almost emptied his bag of washing when he comes across the jumper in question, illuminated somewhat unflatteringly by the harsh light of the launderette and the memory of Sherlock's scorn. He stares at it for a long moment, wondering if he should even bother to wash it or chuck it straight into the bin. He settles for the first option, because although the jumper has been in his possession for years and he's worn it on many occasions, it hasn't hindered Sherlock from noticing that he has 'nice eyes'. Besides, it's warm. And comfy.

When he's finished loading the drum, he goes to pay at the slot machine, which, as he realises with horror, doesn't accept debit cards. He's about to curse Sherlock a second time, when, mercifully, he finds a bit of spare cash in his wallet. He pays for his laundry load and for the washing powder. The latter is provided in a plastic cup at a dispenser right next to the slot machine. The washing powder is paste-like rather than coarse-grained, as though it had been stored somewhere damp or diluted with water. John eyes it with distaste. The whole place seems rather shiny and new. It's sad that the owners have tried to economise on the detergent, of all things.

He fills the somewhat untrustworthy looking washing powder into the designated compartment and searches for the button to start the machine. Unfortunately, the washers in the launderette seem to be the latest model on the market and – like so many other devices that form a part of modern life – they refuse to bow down to his will. John presses several promising-looking buttons, swears a bit, curses at Sherlock a third time for having broken their reliable, _friendly_ old machine at home – all to no avail. There are no other customers at the launderette, so there's no one he can ask for help with the infernal compilation of metal and plastic designed specifically to annoy the hell out of Dr John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Just as John is about to embark on a loud and violent row with his maddeningly silent mechanical foe, a tiny little man with yellow, paperish skin and thin, uncombed white strands of hair on his over-proportionally large head steps into the room. The doctor in John immediately discerns that the stranger consumes large amounts of hard liquor at frighteningly regular intervals. Notwithstanding this observation, there's something touching and childishly sweet in the man's features and movements that reminds John of Sherlock and makes it impossible for him to reproach the man for his unhealthy lifestyle. Also, despite his unkempt appearance, an air of authority surrounds the stranger, so pronounced that it forbids judgement and invites respect.

The old man takes small, shuffling steps in John's direction. Still, once he actually arrives in front of John, he looks up with surprise, as if he hadn't noticed him before. 'I was looking for Omar,' he says with a slight accent. Most likely Indian or Pakistani, John thinks.

John has no idea who Omar is, of course, but at the information that the so-called guy is the owner of the laundrette, he asks the old man if he knows how to operate the washers. The man says that he's never been here before, but he presses a couple of buttons, seemingly at random, and a second later, the machine finally whirrs to life.

Omar, it turns out, is the dotty man's son. This is already the fourth laundrette that he's opened, financially aided by his uncle, the old man's brother. John's new acquaintance is outspoken and a little sarcastic in his disapproval of the life his son has chosen – the sharp tongue another trait he seems to share with John's endearingly frustrating flatmate.

'I want don't want Omar to be so involved with that old crook and his crooked money,' he says with sincere regret. 'I don't want him to walk around looking like an undertaker on holiday. No son of mine should be an underpants cleaner, no matter how well it pays. I want him to go to college. We all need to know something, don't we?'

Vividly, John pictures the man before him living in his home country, ten or twenty years ago, a keen philosopher and thinker, talking to all the political and intellectual leaders of his generation, an eminent authority, distinguished, respected, admired. Then, one day, he decided to leave that safe world so his son could have a better future. Now he's probably lying around drinking vodka all day in some dingy, little flat in London, conversing only with himself, reduced to a big head on a flabby, thin body.

It's funny to think that this man really is all spirit and no flesh, whereas Sherlock likes to imagine himself as nothing but a brain, the rest just transport, when in fact his striking body makes him stand out just as much as his superior intellect. He's tall, strong, fit, with the grace of an elf when he's a fast ripple of movement and with the awe-inspiring aura of an ancient statue when he spends hours lounging on the sofa, lost in thought. He's thin, but not unhealthily so, and supple enough in the right places.

Blushing at the turn his thoughts have taken, John looks back at the old man. Oddly enough, his new acquaintance is smiling at him and pats his hand affectionately.

'Make the most of that, young man,' he says, as if he knows exactly what John's been thinking. John sincerely hopes that this isn't the case. He spends far too much time already with someone of extraordinary mind-reading abilities. 'It's so good to see someone who's exactly where he wants to be. Usually all I see are unhappy, moping faces. Particularly in the young people. They're too lazy and scared to fight for their happiness. Omar's not lazy, I'll give him that, he's fighting all the time – but does he know for what? I don't think so. And then there's Johnny and he's even worse…'

'Who's Johnny?' John asks, feeling stunned at the revelation that he looks as though he's exactly where he wants to be in his life. Is he? After the week he's had, he'd have expected to have the appearance of a hopelessly muddled rabbit.

'Johnny's the lad who helps Omar run all these laundrettes. He's Omar's oldest friend, back from school, and his Man Friday nowadays. The good thing about this underpants cleaning business is that Johnny's no longer got the time to be a fascist, but he could really have made a good deal more of himself than to clean Omar's floors. Ah! The working class has been such a disappointment to me.'

John doesn't really know what to reply to that. He's never been much of a philosopher or political activist. He's always been more of a listener. He's a good one, though, he'd like to think, so he settles for a sympathetic smile.

With a benign nod of his head, the old man announces, 'If Omar's not around, no point in my staying here and waiting for him. If you see Omar, tell him I was here. I'll speak to him when he comes home tonight. Have a good day!'

Slowly, he shuffles towards the door. There he halts and turns back slightly for his parting words. 'I worry about Omar. He's always making money, never meeting any nice girls. I don't think his penis is in full working order.'

John watches him disappear with burning cheeks and an odd feeling of fondness. The encounter has reminded him that first and foremost, he _likes_ Sherlock. It's odd that he needs to be reminded of it, but it's forgotten all too easily beneath that boundless, breathless fascination which his flatmate also inspires in him – and which is something else entirely. Mycroft Holmes, for instance, doubtlessly is a fascinating man – clever, enigmatic, dramatic, not to mention powerful, and yet John doesn't like him all too well. But he's liked Sherlock from the very first moment. Or should he rather say _from the very first wink_?

He's grateful to the funny old man for bringing it home to him. It makes him feel a lot more secure in whatever it is that's happening with them right now. He's not just advancing towards a goal yet unknown because he's being pulled forward by a treacherous momentum of infatuation, a will-o'-the-wisp, a false shadow of his omnipresent fascination with the most extraordinary man he's ever met – no, there's also a tailwind of profound sympathy carrying him along.

Like an echo of the metaphorical wind he'd just been musing about, a wave of cool, fresh air reaches John. It's followed by an energetic young lady with a sharp, beautiful face. She deposits a basket full of all-purpose cleaner and other cleaning paraphernalia on one of the benches and then proceeds to give John a careful once-over as if she's trying to determine whether he's a good catch. As was to be expected, he doesn't pass the test. Too old, too insignificant. Her eyes return to his face with a challenging expression.

'What are you staring at?' she snaps at him. John thinks this is decidedly unfair. After all, so far she's definitely done a lot more staring.

'Nothing. Do you work here?' he asks levelly.

'Why are you asking?'

'I just wondered – is it always this empty here?'

'Yeah. Mostly. This place only opened a couple of weeks ago. Not a good spot. Most people here in the area have their own washing machine at home. So far, people just come here during the happy hour between 5 and 11 am. Washing's half a quid cheaper then.'

'Oh right. Didn't know that.'

'There's a big sign at the door and additional ads on the windows – didn't you see them?'

John shakes his head and wonders why the whole world seems to have conspired to make him feel like an idiot.

'And to answer your question,' she continues flippantly as though that, too, were stated on the signs outside, 'yes, I work here. I come by late at night and clean the whole place. Omar, the guy who owns this joint, is my cousin. He's got four launderettes now. The others are more profitable than this one, I believe. He's greedy, just like my father, always trying to rake in money. His friend Johnny does most of the maintenance, but he can't clean four places, so I'm helping them out here.'

'Does he pay you decently, at least?' John asks.

For the first time, her face softens a little and her mouth does something that could almost be interpreted as a smile. Maybe she's now decided that he's a hopeless idiot, but a nice one at least. 'Not really. Told you – he's greedy. And I'm just a girl. I'm Tania, by the way.'

She holds out her hand. He shakes it. 'I'm John.'

He's aware that a couple of months ago, he would have asked her out for coffee by this point, no matter how strongly she'd displayed that she wasn't interested. Now he doesn't even consider it. And he doesn't regret that one bit. He's not sure if he and Sherlock will ever _do_ anything – most certainly, they'll never do coffee dates, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. After all, why flirt over coffee when you can just as well flirt over some poor bastard's mutilated corpse?

Remembering his earlier encounter with the funny old man, John tells her, 'Omar's father was here just now. He was looking for him. Do you know where he is?'

'Somewhere where there's a chance of making a mint.' Tania shrugs and goes to prepare herself a bucket of fresh water. A minute later, she's outside on a small ladder, cleaning the windows.

John watches her vigorous movements until they suddenly still. Quickly, she jumps down the ladder and fumbles in her coat pocket. She extracts her phone and presses it to her ear. The other ear she covers with her free hand to shut out the noise of the busy street, but it doesn't seem to help. John can see her lips move in something that strongly looks like 'Sorry, I can't hear – Hello? Sorry. Hello? I can't hear you!' A second later, she disappears on the right side of the launderette building. Undoubtedly, she's heading to the small backyard in the hope of finding a bit more quiet for her phone call there.

John gazes at the abandoned bucket and ladder outside. The vague thought of why Tania's bothering to clean the windows at all, since they're almost spotless and she's not even paid well for her efforts, begins to form in his mind when the arrival of a new set of customers distracts him.

It's a couple in their late fifties, their arms entwined, their heads bent towards each other, both laughing flirtatiously. He's a dark, olive-skinned man with a broad moustache and a proud belly that threatens to burst his shirt and suit, she a dainty English lady with girlish curls, carefully applied make-up and a ridiculously voluminous fur coat. John has been around the Holmes brothers long enough to recognise expensive clothing that hints at old money and a fine education, and expensive clothing which signifies nothing more than – money. In this case, it's the latter.

A small basket dangles jauntily from the woman's arm. It contains a couple of pastel-coloured blouses which she places tenderly in the washer next to John's. The man goes to pay for her and also fetches the washing powder. They turn on the machine and stay there, standing close, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

It's rather uncomfortable for John. Although he was here first and has every right to stand there, he suddenly feels like an intruder. He keeps his eyes studiously trained on his own washing. Ten more minutes. Then he can escape back home to possible health hazards and further awkward interactions with his flatmate. He doesn't care if Sherlock has exploded half the kitchen in his absence or if he continues to confuse the hell out of John with his bashful smiles – it'll be infinitely preferable to _this_.

Out of the corner of his eye John perceives that Tania has rematerialised in front of the laundrette. As she bends down to the abandoned bucket, she glances inside and freezes. She's staring at the couple next to John. In the flash of a moment she straightens up and rushes inside, her eyes flaming in a way that's reminiscent of Sherlock's more dangerous experiments in the kitchen.

The portly man gives a violent start when he beholds Tania. 'Tania! What the devil are you doing here?'

'Cleaning the windows. Can't really do that by night,' she explains brusquely. Turning to the woman, she says with a poisonous smile, 'You must be Rachel. How nice to meet you. At last. After so many years in my family's life.'

All at once, John realises two things. Firstly, that the stout man must be Tania's father and the woman in the fur coat his mistress. Secondly, that he's about to witness an intensely explosive family quarrel. Hastily, he crouches down in front of his washing machine and tries to make himself invisible. In five minutes, his washing's finished. Good.

Taken slightly aback by Tania's directness but still managing to sound suave, the woman named Rachel replies, 'Tania. I do feel I know you.'

'But you don't,' comes the swift retort. John glances up in time to see Tania's father roughly seize his daughter's wrist. 'Shut up, girl, dammit!'

'Nasser!' Rachel calls out in mildly rebuking tones. 'Leave off, please. Let Tania and me have a little chat.'

Reluctantly, Nasser lets go of his daughter's wrist. He throws a reproachful look at John, his moustache quivering in silent threat. Quickly, John turns his head back to his washing. He really doesn't want to be dragged into their argument. Just four more minutes now, the counter on his washer tells him.

Unimpressed by her father's anger, Tania is meanwhile saying to Rachel, 'I don't mind my father having a mistress.'

Sounding tense, Rachel rejoins, 'Good. I'm so grateful.'

Simultaneously, Nasser says sternly, 'That's enough, Tania! Go home!'

Still crouched in front of the machine John feels his legs go numb. Uneasily, he shifts about, trying to find a more comfortable position. Normally, he'd just get to his feet and stretch his legs, but with Tania's withering voice washing over him, staying down seems the only sensible course of action. After all, he's well-trained in how to behave in a combat zone.

'I don't mind my father spending our money on you,' is what Tania says. Briefly, John glances up at the three of them to check the impact of those words, seemingly affable and accepting, but foreshadowing something dark and terrible, like a ticking bomb. Tania's father is staring at her, utterly speechless, while Rachel asks warily, 'Why don't you mind?'

'Or my father being with you instead of our mother,' Tania carries on, as though Rachel hadn't spoken at all, only to deliver her final blow, 'but I don't like women who live off men.'

Thank God! The washing's done. Hastily, John stuffs the clean, wet clothes back into his bag. He'll hang them up at the flat. Using the drier on-site would mean spending more time here in this steadily more hostile atmosphere.

John slings the bag over his shoulder and makes his way inconspicuously towards the exit. When he's almost reached the door, he allows himself to glance back briefly at the quarrelling trio.

Rachel looks sick, Nasser livid, Tania cool and disdainful. The air between them bristles with hostility and aggression. But before a big domestic of ultimate MCA dimensions can break out, an explosion of quite another kind occurs. There's a loud bang, followed by anxious shrieks from all three parties. Smoke starts to fill the room, forcing John to cough.

'Are you all right?' he shouts, dropping his bag and hastening to where he last saw them. 'I'm a doctor, it's okay, I can help you.'

The smoke already lifts and he can see them, crouched on the floor, their clothes covered in dust and dirt, their faces white and shocked. The washing machine in front of them has exploded. The door has been torn out of the holder and lies dented a couple of steps away. The washing powder compartment has soared into another direction and cracked during its bumpy landing. The floor is littered with minor glass shards. The pungent smell of burnt plastic penetrates the room. The whole place looks like its formerly shiny exterior has been covered with drab widow's weeds. Amazingly, miraculously, none of the people present seem to have been hurt.

As soon as he's established that no one sports any physical injuries that require immediate attendance, John pulls out his mobile and calls Sherlock. Thankfully, his friend deigns to pick up almost at once.

'Sherlock, get down here, there's been an explosion. I'm in the launderette on Balcombe Street, the one that opened a couple of weeks ago, close to the Taunton Centre,' he says, brief and to the point, because he knows that his friend likes it best when he gets all the facts served as quickly as possible, with no added hysteria. He expects Sherlock to hang up immediately, but surprisingly enough, he lingers and asks, 'John?'

'Yes?'

'Are you all right?'

John would very much like to giggle at the absurdity of it, but as Sherlock's voice actually sounds untypically worried, he hastens to reassure him. 'Yes, of course, I'm perfectly alright. Everybody is. Just an explosion, no casualties.'

Satisfied, Sherlock ends the call.

For a moment, John smiles at his phone display. Thanks to Sherlock, the days where nothing happened to him are long gone. Now, apparently, he can't even complete so mundane a task as doing his washing without attracting trouble. Serious trouble. The thought makes him smile all the more.

Just as John stashes his phone back into his pocket, two young men burst into the room from a door at the back. Despite the fact that they've been nowhere near the explosion, both have a somewhat dishevelled appearance. They're roughly of the same height, build and age, but otherwise John has never seen two people looking so strikingly different.

One is dark-haired with a round, shining face, wearing a black suit, white shirt and a plain-coloured tie. He looks like the leading man straight out of one of those Bollywood movies. He's got the charming, cheerful face of a new-born baby – the kind of face that invites trust and love. But the suit and the determined set of his brows show that he's more than just one of those cuddled darlings of fate – he's an active sort who knows what he wants and gets it too. The conclusion that he must be Omar, the owner of the launderette, Nasser's ambitious nephew who prefers making money to going to college as his father would like him to, presents itself quite naturally to John.

This means, of course, that the other young man must be Johnny, the friend from school who runs all those laundrettes together with Omar. He's got nicely chiselled, sharp features and a very distinctive nose. If he wore a suit like Omar, he'd be dashingly handsome, no two ways about it. As it is, in his well-worn street wear he doesn't make John feel terribly inferior. And his rebellious blond highlights do nothing to improve that, either, for which John is rather grateful. He's not particularly self-conscious about his looks, but he doesn't need to be constantly surrounded by other men who are blessed with several more inches in height _and_ other advantages in appearance on top of that.

'What happened?' Omar asks while Johnny picks up some pieces of rubble.

'Bloody machine exploded!' Nasser swears furiously. 'Right in front of Rachel.' Turning to her, he adds, 'If this was Bilquis, that's really the last straw! I'll belt her up till she's all black and blue!' For John's benefit (because apparently, after surviving an explosion together with them, John's been accepted into the family circle) he explains, 'Bilquis is my wife. She's a witch. She tried to curse Rachel.' Then he tries to lunge at his daughter who retreats with the well-trained reflexes of life-long practice. 'If you've had a hand in this, you little bitch, I'll kill you, you and your mother!'

Since Nasser makes no further move towards his daughter and just stands there, scowling and breathing heavily, John sees no immediate reason to tackle him to the ground. 'By all means,' he instead tries to placate him, 'this looks more like an act of terrorism. Or like the beginning of one of those riots. I mean, this _is_ Balcombe Street, after all. Even nowadays there are several gangs here in the area, I think.'

Unfortunately, while his words seem to have the desired effect on Nasser, the smart nephew now pounces on Johnny and stabs a finger at his chest. 'If this was one of your fascist mates, you're fired. And I'll never want to see you again!'

'They're not my mates no more,' Johnny protests. 'Gave it all up for you, remember?'

Omar just counters this with a contemptuous little nod. Johnny hangs his head. He looks unhappy, defeated even, as though they keep on having this argument, again and again. John feels most sorry for him.

Mentally, John reverses all the assumptions he's made, based on their appearance. Whereas Omar has the sweeter, softer face, he seems to be a lot harder and harsher than his friend. And Johnny, for all his striking looks and defiant rig-out, has the more pliant and dependent nature. It makes John wonder how on earth their friendship has survived for so long. Probably people looking at him and Sherlock also ask themselves what their companionship could possibly be built on, but compared to those two in front of him, his friendship with Sherlock seems astonishingly simple, almost mundane.

'What a mess, what a mess!' Nasser's anxious voice interrupts John's musings. He's rubbing soothing circles over Rachel's back where she stands shock-frozen in front the destroyed washing machine. 'If only my damn brother were here! And sober! He's the only one who knows anything.'

'Don't worry,' John tries to reassure him. 'My friend Sherlock will be here soon. He's a detective. He's really clever. He'll solve this.'

'Sherlock?' Nasser repeats. 'Odd name. Think I've read it somewhere – Sherlock Holmes?'

'Yep, that's him.'

'He works with Scotland Yard, doesn't he? There was something in the papers about that Peak District kidnapping?'

'Yeah, he helps them out occasionally. When it's interesting.'

'Is it well-paid?' Nasser asks, his small, dark eyes shining greedily.

'It's not paid at all. Sherlock does it because he likes it.'

'Christ, that's rich!' Nasser exclaims. 'I mean, really rich! To be able to look down on money. I couldn't do it. We're nothing in England without money.'

John shrugs because he doesn't really know what to say. After all, his attitude to money is a little different from Sherlock's. He's no posh offspring of one of the oldest families in England, with a trust fund, a country estate and an omnipotent older brother to round off the picture of perfect independence. Fortunately, that's not troubled their friendship ever since Sherlock delegated all things to do with money to John. It might be a very immature solution, but it works well for them.

Omar, whose sense of business and money is infinitely more pronounced than either Sherlock or John's, meanwhile surveys the mess caused by the explosion. Turning to Johnny, he says, 'What are you waiting for? We're losing valuable time. What if someone comes to do their washing? Get to work! Clean this up! Or you're fired.'

'Don't!' John interrupts hastily. 'Sherlock and the police, when they arrive – they'll want to see the scene of the explosion. Otherwise they won't be able to deduce what happened here and who's responsible.'

Omar looks ready to argue the point and Johnny puts a placating hand on his shoulder. Stroppily, Omar shakes him off. Johnny looks at him regretfully. Omar just shakes his head. 'You still don't get it, do you?' he says. 'I want big money. I'm not gonna be beat down by this country. Nor by you.'

The aggression behind Omar's words makes John's hair stand on end. He presumes that back at school, Omar and Johnny's friendship wasn't all sunshine and roses as John had originally surmised. Omar probably was the odd Pakistani kid, predestined to be bullied by Johnny and his cool gang. Now, the hierarchy of the playground seems to be reversed. They're clearly not two equal business partners and they're obviously not wearing such different outfits for nothing. Omar's the one who calls the shots and Johnny's the one who washes the floor. It's possible that Omar wants revenge for all the hurt the other boy caused him. Surprisingly enough, Johnny seems willing to grant it. Or maybe there's something else at work entirely, something John has yet to unravel.

Not now, though, where John's head is swimming with all the accusations that Omar, Johnny, Tania, Nasser and Rachel are shouting at each other. Soon, the ravaged room is practically flooded with possible motives and suspects. They all seem to have a curious gift at getting into shady situations and making enemies. Therefore, John is endlessly relieved when Sherlock finally shows up at the launderette, not a minute too late. Sherlock's sharp and keen features are a blessing after the loud turmoil that John was forced to witness the last couple of minutes. Sherlock's intent gaze sweeps through the room like a particularly efficient swab, making John feel certain that Sherlock will clear this up in no time.

As ever, Sherlock's appearance doesn't cease to make an impression. There is something about him that is just so noticeable and commands attention, of friend and foe alike, even when he doesn't arrive with a swirling dark coat trailing behind him – although, in this case, he does – to top off his stageworthy entry. Everybody else assembled in the launderette falls silent at the sight of him.

In turn, Sherlock looks everybody carefully up and down, nodding brusquely so that the gesture seems more like an insult than a greeting. He makes an exception for Rachel and raises her hand to his lips with a gallant flourish. She blushes with pleasure whereas Tania stares daggers at the detective's back.

Ignoring the waves of hostility she's sending in his direction, Sherlock then steps close to her. He glances briefly at her hands too, but when he extends his arm, it's not to grasp one of them and place a kiss on it. Instead, his arm dives past hers and before she can protest he's already reached inside her coat pocket and drawn out a folded piece of paper. Only when Sherlock's hand closes over the document does John recall that he saw it protruding from her pocket when she first entered the launderette. As ever, he'd seen, but not observed. Sherlock briefly studies the piece of paper, then hands it over to John. It's a print-out of an online-booked one-way plane ticket to Karachi leaving early the next morning. The sight doesn't surprise John. From all he's been forced to witness, he understands that she can't wait to get away from her father.

Glaring at him, Tania snatches the ticket from his hands and stuffs it back into her pocket. Apologetically, John shrugs at her and continues to watch his friend's deductive process. He's sure that he'll never tire of watching Sherlock check a crime-scene, both meticulous and supernaturally fast, drawing conclusions that seem to have been written in the dust all along, only no one knew how to decipher them.

Sherlock sniffs first at the washing machine that exploded and at the washing powder compartment that's been blast off. Then, like a bloodhound on a scent, he noses the slot machine and the washing powder dispenser next to it. He straightens up with a pleased smirk. John wonders what it is that he's worked out. Has the washing powder been tampered with? There's no smell of gunpowder in the air, though – John knows that smell so well he'd recognise it anywhere, thank you very much. Nor would any of the explosives he's familiar with have ignited themselves after having been mixed up with the soggy washing powder that the vending machine gives out. Still, it's good to know that Sherlock, for one, seems to have an idea what might have caused the sudden explosion, even if John, as usual, is stumped.

Bristling with his usual case-related intensity, Sherlock asks Omar to open the washing powder dispenser for him. Omar defers the request to Tania, who pulls out the key and dutifully opens it. Intently, Sherlock examines the washing powder. Humming with concentrated contentment, he then demands to have the slot machine opened too. This time, it's Omar who produces a key, as apparently he's the only one who has access to the cash. Typical, John thinks. She refills the washing powder, he takes out the cash.

His curiosity in inspecting the place apparently satisfied, Sherlock proceeds to ask a few random questions, such as how much spare change is usually kept in the slot machine, whether Rachel has recently changed her brand of hand cream, when Tania usually comes in for cleaning, how many customers frequent the place, if John used the washing machine next to Rachel's, and how much the launderette yields on an average day.

The answer to the last question is 250 pounds. Omar delivers it with furrowed brow. He isn't happy with how the launderette's performing financially, that much is clear. He starts blaming Johnny and Tania for not working hard enough, for not making the place attractive enough to new customers. Tania doesn't mince matters and tells him it's his own fault that he opened a launderette in such an unprofitable spot. Omar snaps back at her that she's just a girl and doesn't know the first thing about business. Watching this, John is beginning to feel a pronounced dislike towards Omar. He wonders why Johnny puts with him. Unperturbed by his friend's outburst, Johnny goes to fetch a broom. He takes Tania's hand and leads her away with him.

At the same time, Nasser is talking insistently to Sherlock about how he's convinced that his wife is behind the explosion. 'She's a witch. She cursed Rachel.' He intermingles these observations with questions on whether Sherlock has ever consulted in financial matters or if he would like to do so in the future, brewing a highly curious concoction of dread, greed, worry and superstition beneath his dark moustache.

Sherlock tries to stare him down with his patented 'You're a moron'-look, but Nasser seems completely impervious to it, as John notes with amusement. Slowly, John starts to understand why the portly, dark man with the moustache is such a successful businessman. Though he's still pretty unclear on what exactly it is that Nasser does to earn his living – something tells him that it's nothing so legal and boring as, say, being an accountant. But he's sure that if he later asks Sherlock, his friend will be able to tell him where the stout man's money sprung from, down to the last penny, going by the man's shoe laces or something like that.

Meanwhile, Johnny has started to sweep through the place. Tania is helping him, picking up large shards of glass and plastic. Eventually, she comes across a dirty shred of pale blue silk – the pitiful remains of one of Rachel's blouses. Demonstratively, Tania holds it up to Rachel. Even the most unimaginative of Scotland Yard's officers would have grasped what she meant by that gesture: Look, that's all _you_ are.

Rachel gasps in shock. Nasser finally lets up on Sherlock, puts a protective arm around his mistress's shoulders and booms imperatively in his nephew's direction, as though that were the solution to all his problems, 'Omo, marry Tania, get her off my back!' When Omar just stands staring wordlessly at him, Nasser adds impatiently, 'What are you waiting for? I say you marry her, you damn well marry her. Your penis works, doesn't it?'

Just like that, John is reminded that Nasser and the frail old man he met previously are indeed brothers. He can barely keep himself from sniggering. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Sherlock is smirking too. Obviously for entirely different reasons, but going by Sherlock's flashy movements, John is going to be made privy to them any minute now.

'Marry me, Tania,' Omar says, half-jokingly. Johnny frowns at him. So does Tania.

'If you can get me money,' she says coolly. 'But – look at you: You're too greedy to share, just like my father. And I'm just a girl. So – _no_.'

'What – no?' her father exclaims indignantly.

'I'd rather drink my own urine,' she declares passionately.

'I hear it can be quite tasty, with a slice of lemon,' Omar quips back.

Sherlock's brows rise to the most sardonic heights John has witnessed so far. Even before Sherlock opens his mouth, John knows that an eruption of sarcasm, far more volatile than the small explosion of the washing machine, is imminent.

'Let me just point out,' Sherlock drawls, 'in case you're hopelessly deluded, that this really wasn't funny. It was a terribly weak attempt to camouflage the fact that you won't marry _her_,' he nods at Tania, because ostensibly he really can't be bothered to retain her name, 'because you've just had sex with _him_ in the backroom,' this is accompanied by a nod in Johnny's direction, 'and intend to repeat the experience at the earliest possible moment. Did you realise you're wearing one of his socks?'

With wonder, John sees Omar's face turn slightly towards Johnny. He smiles, completely unabashed, a little saucily even. And all of a sudden, John understands why all that aggression, all that history between them can't break them apart: There's love there, amply. They just don't have a space of their own to live it out, a refuge from the rest of the world, a nest of domesticity and affection like 221B. It's clear that Omar doesn't invite Johnny over to where he's staying with his father – in his stead, John would also rather leave his parent in doubt if his penis is in full working order. And Johnny doesn't look like he can afford to live on his own, either. This means that all they have are the back-offices of their launderettes, where they can only ever half escape the beckoning call of work and money. It's a wonder, then, that there's so much to their relationship as there is.

Gradually, John realises that he must have been staring at the odd couple for quite some time. He recollects himself and becomes aware that Nasser is showering his nephew with terms of abuse, most to the point that he should stop 'this nonsense' at once and marry Tania.

Omar does a lot of smiling and talking in return, sounding very much like the pacifying, opportunistic individual that he'd previously revealed himself to be, but now John also sees the playfulness behind it. Omar may sweet-talk his uncle and personal business angel, but at heart he's quite firm. He's a despicably greedy boy, no doubts about that, but his greed isn't only for money. He wants Johnny and is going to keep him. Infinitely. Nasser may not have realised that yet, but Johnny certainly has, judging by the way he grins at his own feet.

A warm, fuzzy feeling spreads through John as he watches them. Whatever their differences, he can tell they're going to be fine. He thinks of last Saturday night and everything that happened since and hopes the same will be true for him and Sherlock too.

Involuntarily, he glances sideways at Sherlock – and what he sees arrests his gaze and increases the delicious warmth circulating inside him: Sherlock, too, is watching Omar and Johnny. There is an expression on his face that John has never seen there before. For lack of a better word, he decides to call it _wistful_.

Slowly, Sherlock turns to face him. He smiles slightly and just like that, John is certain that he, too, has been thinking of last Saturday night. There's something in his quicksilver eyes as they focus on John that takes John's breath away and makes him forget all their surroundings. Drawn in, like a helpless moth to the flame, he takes a step towards his friend – when Sherlock claps his hands and announces with a dramatic swirl of his coat, 'The whole affair is tediously transparent.'

John feels very much like that bicycle tyre which Sherlock had first pumped up and then pricked with a knife to prove his theory about the tracks in the Peak District kidnapping. He wonders briefly if he's misread the entire situation. The electric atmosphere between them, those gazes exchanged, crackling with suspense and intensity – maybe they were only an expression of the thrill of the case, nothing more. Maybe John has been living in a dream, these past few days, interpreting Sherlock's actions in the light of last Saturday night, when he should have seen them as a preparation for today. It is possible that Sherlock was only waiting for the next case – and not for John.

Suddenly, John feels short of breath and lead-legged. A little sick, too. Very much like the wet laundry that he's dropped somewhere – spin-dried ad nauseam and heavy, waiting to be hung up. The comparison seems curiously fitting since he could well be a senseless piece of clothing, for all the attention Sherlock pays him. A scarf maybe, cherished and comfortable, but still only a scarf. He feels like an utter idiot for ever having considered that he could be more than that.

'John?' Sherlock's voice cuts through his dismal thoughts.

John looks up to find that everybody is staring at Sherlock in anticipation. Sherlock, however, is staring at him.

Right. He wants John's attention. Of course. He wants John to be impressed. To exclaim 'Fantastic!' and to write a gushing blog post about it. Reluctantly, John looks back at his friend. All he wants to do is get back to the flat and crawl under his blankets. But he's never denied Sherlock his full attention. Okay, he's never denied Sherlock, full stop. He nods to indicate that he's listening and hopes that it will be over quickly.

To John's astonishment, Sherlock doesn't immediately launch into his usual glib stream of deductions. Instead, ignoring the whispering behind his back, he keeps on looking at John. Eventually, he tilts his head lightly to the side, his eyes twinkling with promise, directed at John alone. John feels himself go weak in the knees and what's left of his battered brain is in danger of melting to jelly, irreversibly, but he still manages to pick up on the blessed, wonderfully real fact that Sherlock also wants to get out of the launderette as quickly as possible. To be alone with John. Maybe his thoughts have wandered to John's blankets too, and to what they might get up to when they're both buried beneath them – who knows?

John wants to laugh out with giddy joy. He doesn't, because he's afraid that he wouldn't be able to stop. He also refrains from taking his friend's hand and dragging him out of the place right away. Because he understands that Sherlock would never sell the art of deduction cheaply. He's not going to leave without putting on a show. As for John, he's going to watch, gasping and clapping at all the right places. And he's going to publish a smashing review of it later, on his blog.

As some kind of appetising prologue to the first act, accompanied by the confused murmurs of his waiting audience, the consulting detective makes a move as though to sweep out of the launderette, but – as he'd undoubtedly planned – the others call him back in a wild cacophony of demands for an explanation. With a show of histrionic impatience that causes John to roll his eyes, Sherlock turns back to the assembly.

'A simple reaction between hydrogen peroxide and bleach activator. Add a recalcitrant girl to the equation and you get the scene we're currently investigating.'

'Recalci – You bitch!' Nasser screams, lunging himself at his daughter, but his quick soldier reflexes kicking in, John shoots forward to detain him.

Undeterred, Sherlock continues, 'Due to its low hydrolytic stability, bleach activator is only contained in washing powder, not in liquid detergent, since there it would immediately react with potent oxidising agents such as hydrogen peroxide, which doesn't happen in the solid phase. However, if you add a bit of liquid detergent to your washing powder, lock it in a tight space, give it a bit of time and maybe a bit of heat, you'll get a beautiful redox reaction. Isn't that so, Tania?'

'If you say so,' she says coolly. 'I've never studied chemistry.'

'You may not understand the chemistry behind the process, but you do know the process, don't you? Or at least your mother does? Judging by the last, faint traces of a delightful rash she's caused on _her_ hands,' he nods at Rachel, 'your mother really knows her way round materials. No witchcraft about that, by the way.'

'No witchcraft?' Rachel asks disbelievingly. 'But I've never met her!'

'He,' with this Sherlock obviously means Nasser, 'often gives you presents, doesn't he? Most of the jewellery you're wearing only appeared in the display windows of the top London jewellers in the last couple of months. All she would have had to do is rub one or several of these gifts with some of the more phototoxic plants in her back garden. But obviously the skin-irritating qualities of plants are not all she's familiar with. Which brings us back to the case at hand. A box of washing powder in her pantry might have gotten rather damp one day and exploded over night. She wouldn't have forgotten it. And she'd have remembered it when you,' now he was back to addressing Tania, 'came to her saying you needed money.'

'If you hatched this plot to scare Rachel, you and your mother, I'll kill you!' Nasser swears, his face purple with rage.

'If you weren't constantly thinking with your purse and your penis,' Sherlock says disdainfully, 'you'd know that you're spouting complete nonsense. Just now I explained that the explosive concoction of washing powder and liquid detergent served no other purpose than to give your daughter the money she needed to start a new life in Karachi.'

'I don't understand,' Rachel says while Omar, Nasser and Johnny gape at the consulting detective. 'My washer exploded. What's it to do with money? And Karachi?'

'That your washer exploded was an unfortunate accident. Just think. You used the washing powder from the vending machine. Thus – contrary to the tiringly tedious suggestions of the idiot standing next to you – the explosion can't have been aimed at you personally, since any other customer using the washing powder could also have been exposed to one. Treating this as a general act of sabotage would make no sense, either, since this building is neither frequented by many people nor in any way symbolically important. On top of that, it would have been difficult for an external gang of rioters or terrorists to exchange the washing powder without anybody noticing that the dispenser had been broken open. The simplest conclusion is therefore to suppose that the person who possessed the key to the vending machine exchanged the washing powder.

'This theory is supported by the fact that there's a bucket and a ladder standing outside. Someone was cleaning the windows although they're still rather clean. And that some is none other than you,' Sherlock adds with a meaningful nod at Tania. 'The skin on your fingers is still a bit wrinkled. So,' he explains for the benefit of the rest of the audience, 'why would she do something so unnecessary? Clearly, the answer is that she was just trying to pass the time as innocuously as possible, waiting for something else to happen. An explosion.'

'However, why would she wish to randomly blow up washing machines?' he asks rhetorically, pointing at Tania. 'The obvious answer is: She didn't. She had quite another explosion in mind. Sadly, she had no idea that the washing powder could also cause one of the machines to blow up. She hadn't taken into account that the strong vibrations caused by the spin-drying of one washer could heat up the washing powder compartment of the machine next to it, thereby catalysing the redox reaction process and unlashing an unwanted explosion. Which is exactly what happened, going by the fact that John dropped his bag of laundry close to the entry, meaning that he was on the point of leaving, from which I inferred that the explosion took place just after his washing was done. Hence the spin-drying as a likely catalyst.'

'Blimey!' Johnny exclaims in amazement.

'Fuck!' is Tania's more frustrated reaction, while John lets out a low whistle and the rest of them gape in astonished silence.

'What did she want to blow up, then?' John asks, aware that there's a decidedly awed quality to his voice.

Preening, Sherlock replies, 'The slot machine. As you'll have noticed, it's situated right next to the washing powder dispenser. She knew that she'd have to wait a while before it blew up, which made it very likely that the launderette would be completely empty, since hardly anybody frequents it outside the happy hour, from what you told me. She was going to wait here until it did and pretend to be busy cleaning the windows or whatever. Adding together the average earnings plus spare change, this would have provided her with a sum somewhere around 500 pounds.'

'But why?' Rachel asks, sounding just as stunned as John feels.

'Why she wanted to blow it up?' Sherlock repeats in his most exasperated 'Why do I have to be surrounded by complete idiots all the time'-voice. 'That's obvious, isn't it. She didn't have a key to open it, of course.'

'No, why did she want the money?' Rachel amends her question.

'She wanted to start a new life in Karachi. One-way plane ticket leaving early tomorrow morning. Obvious that. She just lacked the money for her enterprise. Her father wouldn't give her any, nor her cousin. So together with her mother she concocted an alternative plan to get it.'

Her cheeks flushing with shame, Rachel lowers her gaze to her shoes. Omar also has the good grace to look mildly abashed, while his uncle's still too staggered to show any other reaction. Johnny gives Tania's arm a sympathetic squeeze.

Turning to Nasser, Sherlock ends his brilliant deductions with a last piece of advice, 'You want to ensure that there's no repeat of this incident and you want to have your daughter off your back, once and for all? – No need to marry her off to someone she doesn't want to marry and who doesn't want to marry her, either. Just give her some money and she'll be gone to Karachi in no time.'

Everybody gapes at him. John tries to do so slightly less obviously than the rest. After all, by now he should be well used to Sherlock's startling deductions. And yet – he can't help but be amazed, again and again. Sherlock glances at him, briefly, as he always does, checking for signs that he's managed to impress him. The corners of his mouth quirk, pleased and just a touch disbelieving, even after all this time. With great fondness, John rolls his eyes.

All of a sudden, the shrill sound of a police horn fills the street and a second later a harassed-looking Lestrade and two of his officers barge into the laundrette.

'You're late,' Sherlock greets them. 'Small domestic quarrel, though of a rather explosive nature, I grant. I think the family can sort it out by themselves. Good day. Come along, John.'

With a dramatic swirl of his coat, Sherlock sweeps out of the building. John seizes up the bag containing their laundry and follows him. Once he's closed the door behind him, John quickly glances back.

Lestrade stands there, scratching his greying head. Tania, her father and his mistress are back to arguing. There's something half-hearted about the rapid movements of Nasser's mouth and moustache, though. John rather feels that if any metaphorical tyres have been burst this afternoon, it must have been Nasser's self-image as a tyrannical patriarch on discovering that the rest of his family is just acting up with him. In profile, Nasser's porky cheeks look a bit deflated. Flabby almost.

The thought of flabby skin suddenly reminds John that he's completely forgotten to tell Omar of his father's earlier visit. Blast! Well, there's nothing he can do about that now. Omar and Johnny have somehow managed to steal away, quiet and unnoticed by the rest. Chuckling contently, John turns away.

A couple of steps away from the entrance, Sherlock is waiting for him, biting his lip as though now that he's delivered all his deductions, he no longer knows what to do or to say.

'That was amazing!' John calls out to him, brimming over with the well-known, but nonetheless delicious post-case happiness and something else entirely that he can't even hope to put into words. There's an awful lot he wants to say, even more that he feels he _should_ say, since Sherlock is gazing at him in silent, slightly awkward expectation, but John's tongue can't seem to form the words. He sticks to humour instead, which is always readily available. 'You can make a bloody good story out of the most ordinary, everyday situations. Never had so much fun in my life doing the washing.'

Sherlock blinks and looks at him again, as dazed and excited as John feels. It's as though John has reached the end of the corridor that he walked down the entire week and finds that there's nothing there save a wall and some sort of modernist painting that could as well be a child's clumsy scrawl. Yet when he turns around, he finds that, gloriously, spectacularly, Sherlock has followed him all the way. John's still the one carrying all the washing, Sherlock still exhibits too much dramatic flourish not to be a movie character, and they're both too confused and tight-lipped for their own good, but somehow they've both made it to this point, together.

'Let's go home, John,' Sherlock says slowly.

Suddenly John can't _not_ touch his friend. Blindly, he reaches out his hand – and miraculously, Sherlock's comes to meet his half-way in a strong, confident grip. They look at each other and smile.

As they slowly make their way back home, perhaps to resume things where they left off last Saturday night, neither stops smiling and neither lets go.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Reviews would be lovely.


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